


Choices

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [11]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Angst, Canon Divergence, Demon Vengeance, Jealous Anders, M/M, Oral Sex, dark Anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: Anders needs an escape from the demands of his clinic, from the Cause, from... everything. He thought he'd find it at Hawke's estate. He was wrong.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke (Unrequited), Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: From the Ashes [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/176042
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** So the smut from '[Utero Aqua](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28317627)' kind of morphed into... this :') You don't need to read the long fic to follow this one, but it would probably make more sense.
> 
>  **C/W:** Anders is not doing great in this fic. If he's your comfort character, maybe give this one a skip.

~ Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, Hawke’s estate in Hightown, 9:36 Dragon ~

Anders was sweating by the time he crested the steps leading from the old Amell wine cellar into the pantry of Hawke’s estate. There was an ache in his side and his head spun with exertion. The climb didn’t used to be so taxing. He rested a hand on the iron-inlaid doorframe to steady himself and stood, panting for a moment. The key was on a chain around his neck, its links snagging in his hair as he pulled it from beneath his clothes. He tugged, then wrenched, barely wincing as the strands tore from his scalp.

The lock clanked and the door groaned open. As Anders stepped inside, he felt the prickle of the wards he’d helped Hawke cast. His breath hitched on a pang of irrational fear, but the magic did not burst into flame as it would for an intruder.

Hawke had cleaned the passage and given him the keys, “ _in case the templars give you trouble._ ”

There’d been no templars tonight.

No Coterie.

No Carta, either.

Anders just… he’d wanted to be somewhere where no one would come looking. No patients. No runaways. He just needed… to not be needed for a while.

It was the second Thursday of the month. He had trouble keeping track of the date sometimes, but he’d made sure. Hawke’s clucking steward had the night off. There would be no one to hover, intruding every few minutes as though Anders were a madman who needed to be watched. The new Lord Amell, in all but name, would be answering correspondence in his study. Anders could simply sit and watch. They wouldn’t even have to talk.

He conjured a plume of flame to light his path through the pantry and pushed open the door that brought him to the kitchens. A pot simmered on the coals, filling the room with the distinctly Fereldan aroma of bitter herbs and venison. Whatever faults Hawke’s steward might have, the dwarf’s cooking wasn’t among them.

Anders stood alone in the quiet twilight, allowing himself to bask in the clean, homely warmth of his surroundings. Such simple comforts. Things he’d taken for granted once, outlandish luxuries in Kirkwall’s undercity where he’d made his home.

He had to think to recall the last thing ate. A flagon of cold soup came to mind. Couriered to the clinic by one of Varric’s urchins the evening prior… or, was it the eve before that?

It suddenly seemed like an eternity ago.

Unconcerned with courtesy, Anders plucked a bowl from a shelf and hurried to the pot. His hands shook, splattering hot broth onto his sleeve as he served himself. Foregoing utensils, he brought the bowl to his lips and let the contents stream into his mouth. The stew was scalding, burning his tongue, but he didn’t slow, hardly chewing as he ate where he stood.

He didn’t realise the urgency of his hunger until the first portion of food filled his mouth. He continued to gorge, burning his throat, feeling the swirl of the Fade healing him from within. He was up to his third serving before he paused to take a breath.

As the stew’s heat filled his belly, the knowledge that he could likely afford his own home in Hightown glimmered on the periphery of his mind. According to Varric, the portion of the Deep Roads profit he’d kept in trust on Anders’ behalf was earning a comely copper in interest. He doubted he’d be able to afford anything as imposing as this. The Hawke brothers had pooled their share of the spoils to buy back the estate their mother grew up in, but perhaps… an apartment? Above ground with a ready supply of clean water and scones with wax candles for light.

The Fade burned under his skin and he nearly dropped the bowl he held.

“No, no,” he whispered aloud.

He wouldn’t touch the money.

He’d told Varric that his patients and the clinic were his incentives to remain where he was. And they were, but the indulgences of the uppercity, even those as simple as inhaling air that did not smell of excrement, were temptations, distractions he dared not partake in with any great frequency. He had a cause, a purpose _._ He required nothing else. Darktown’s squalor helped him. Like the terror of a child pulled from his mother, like taint-fuelled nightmares of demons, and waking to the knowledge that Karl was dead because he’d killed him, so too the foulness of the sewer was a reminder, keeping him alert, spurring him on.

All that mattered was his mission.

“ _No peace, no compromise! They will pay! They will burn!_ ”

Beneath the unearthly thunder of the spirit, a sound encroached, faint and fleeting. A bare rustle of air, but Anders had spent a lifetime running and it was a fugitive’s conditioning that seized hold of his senses. He knew what he’d heard – a short, hoarse grunt. A sound of pain. The doors were locked, all but the front entrance trapped and warded. Anders had personally drawn the runes, but he would not delude himself into believing the house impregnable. Hawke had many enemies. If he’d been overpowered…

Anders had left his staff in the clinic, hidden in plain sight under a pile of rags. There’d been a time when he would have carried it with him, but its weight had seemed unbearably heavy tonight. He still had his magic. If templars were involved, he would have one chance at casting, perhaps two before the Fade shifted from malleable clay to hardened mortar. There was always Justice, but that would require forfeiting control and the spirit was as likely to kill Hawke as aid him.

Anders set his half-eaten bowl of stew on the table and crept up the darkened stairwell that led to the main floor of the house. The architecture retained the style of ancient Tevinter, with the rooms divided by high stone arches, rather than doors. Anders found his way by touch, sliding his hand along the wall until he emerged in the never-used dining room. It was quiet and empty, the darkness barely broken by the glow of fire from the great room beyond.

The Mabari’s nest of buckskins and hessian lay vacant. Either the war hound had been overtaken with his master, or it was spending the night with the Hendyrs for guard training in the morning.

Anders listened.

 _There_ – breathing, laboured and rough. A low curse of distress.

Nothing else.

Was Hawke injured?

Was he alone?

A corner alcove formed between the dining room wall and the first arch that opened into the great room. Two of the bricks were imperfectly aligned, allowing a splinter of light, no bigger than a finger, to break through.

An idea formed. With his heart beating in his ears, Anders crept across the floor toward the little nook. It would help him preserve the element of surprise, should he need it. Silent as a whisper, he slotted himself into the crevice and pressed his face to the wall, peering through the gap in the stone.

He had a surprisingly clear view of the room beyond, though it took a moment to understand what he was seeing.

Hawke was indeed there. And he was definitely not alone.

He lounged on the bear pelt in front of the hearth, Fenris beside him. The elf’s tunic was gone, leggings trailing off one ankle. He had his back arched, legs spread so wide that Anders caught a glimpse of tight, smooth sack and even a hint of bobbing cock between his thighs. In his experience, elves were never well endowed and Fenris was no exception. His length was modest by human standards, but there was no mistaking his arousal. His cock twitched, leaking clear fluid that caught the light with every flex of Hawke’s fingers into the stretched rim of his entrance.

From what Anders could see, Hawke was dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves. His hair was unbound, obscuring his profile. The elf’s body was in the way, but by the shift of Fenris’ shoulders, the rise and fall of his head, there was no mistaking the cause of Hawke’s ragged panting.

Abruptly, the ex-slave rose off Hawke’s cock, drawing breath in a wet-sounding gasp.

“Wreeeath,” the single, gruff syllable stretched in a remarkably petulant whine.

Anders blinked. Hawke’s given name? Not even Aveline had leave to call him that.

Hawke cupped Fenris’ jaw with his free hand, the one not fucking into his hole, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

“I know, I know. But I have nothing to smooth the way and I refuse to hurt you.”

“’m not made of glass,” the elf sulked, voice all but slurring in his lust. He’d risen to all fours and Anders had a sudden, stark view of Hawke’s cock, arching up from the parting of his clothing. Fenris wrung a hiss from the man as he began to slide a hand along his length, only to mewl and shiver, hips rolling as Hawke retaliated by forcing a third finger in alongside the others.

Fenris cursed in Tevene. His arms gave out, head lolling onto Hawke’s thigh. That left the latter’s own erection untended, but he hardly seemed bothered.

“Maker, you’re so hot inside,” Hawke marvelled, watching the elf writhe on his fingers like a serpent trying to slither from its skin.

Fenris moaned. From Anders’ vantage, he could see his slender hand close around his cock and balls. He didn’t stroke himself, simply grinding fitfully into his palm.

“How do you… do you not, _Venhedis_ , have any oil?”

Hawke’s chuckle was a rasp. “Do you want to come or do you want to argue?”

Fenris said something, rough as a growl. His hand fisted in the linen of Hawke’s shirt.

Anders watched, eyes growing wide, as the lines on the elf’s back and thighs began to flicker.

Swirls of Hawke’s blueish-white mana rose around his wrist and Fenris screamed, jerking as if wounded. His markings flashed, bright as sunlight, and then he was collapsing, trembling into Hawke.

“Wolf? Fenris? Are you—”

Fenris panted something, face buried in Hawke’s lap. The other mage leaned forward, gently working his arms around… his lover?

The thought rankled – infuriated – but there was no denying it. This was neither cavalier, nor fleeting. Anders didn’t know what Hawke was saying, but he’d never heard him speak like this. His voice, always edged with that ingrained Korcari harshness, rang soft and soothing, honey dripping from his cadence.

As if released from a trance, Anders realized what he was doing. His breath caught, heat crawled up his ears. As quietly as he could, he backed away, retracing his path toward the kitchens in the dark.

In the glow of the fire, he felt the anger rise, pooling in his chest, flowing outward through his limbs. His mana surged, sparks danced between his fingers.

He wanted to pick up the bowl he’d left on the table and throw it.

He wanted to let the power blast forth, take whatever form it willed – fire, ice, lightning – and bring the house down upon itself.

He wanted to rush back up the stairs and see them both _scream_ in something other than traitorous pleasure.

“ _Vengeance! Vengeance!_ ” boomed in his mind.

He stabbed his hands into his hair, pulling until his scalp ached.

“No, no,” he sobbed through gritted teeth. “Hawke is… our friend.”

And what of the elf?

Anders couldn’t tell where the thought came from; the Fade or within himself. He doubled over, hands on his knees.

Breathe, just breathe.

His mana receded. He gripped blindly until he found a chair and carefully, carefully let it take his weight. The bowl of half-eaten stew was still there. His hunger was no longer a clawing ache below his ribs, but Maker knew when he would next have the chance to eat.

He brought it to his lips. His fingers had not stopped their trembling.

Justice had calmed.

As for Anders himself, the roil of hurt-deceived-denied seemed all the more stark in the absence of the spirit’s single-minded fervour.

A sneer curled his mouth.

For all Fenris’ professed hatred of mages, he did seem to gravitate toward those with influence and wealth. What was it about him that made practical men, even a Magister, abandon all duty, all sense?

He was pretty, Anders supposed. When he wasn’t spewing his vitriol. When he wasn’t trying to justify what Anders— _mages_ had suffered in Thedas with his sob stories about the Imperium and its vices. All exaggerated, he was sure. To steer him from his calling, to confound his purpose.

Hawke kept insisting that there was more to the little bastard; that Anders needed to listen, that he simply “ _didn’t understand_.”

What else could there be that possibly mattered?

He’d heard what happened on the Wounded Coast. From Varric, of course. Not Hawke himself. The Magister had set a trap, baited with the elf’s own sister. He’d very nearly succeeded in hauling his errant slave back to Tevinter, but Hawke – an apostate, a mage – had mobilised the City Guard and the templars of the Gallows to see that plan thwarted.

Anders stared at the dregs of stew at the bottom of the bowl.

What would Hawke have done if it was _he_ who’d been taken? Arrested by his precious templars and sent face the Knight-Commander?

“ _Kill him,_ ” was what Hawke had said of Karl. “ _If you haven’t the stomach to see it done, I will._ ”

Was that what Anders could expect from Kirkwall’s Champion? A quick death on the end of a dagger, while a man who revelled in the injustice imposed on their people moaned on his cock like a whore?

Hawke… cared for the elf. That much was clear.

Did he think someone like Fenris, a mundane who scorned the gift of lyrium in his flesh, would ever reciprocate his feelings?

Hawke was a fool!

If Fenris batted his lashes at him, it was because of this house, because Hawke was the scion of the Amells, and Kirkwall’s bloody Champion. If Hawke was made to live in the shadows, forced to scurry and hide, Fenris would not spare a second glance in his direction.

He’d left Hawke once.

Anders knew, because _he’d_ been the one who stepped in, who picked Hawke up and assembled the pieces, only to have it thrown in his face when he bared his own heart.

His vision blurred; he felt a trickle down his cheek. “I would have loved you. _All_ of you,” he whispered. “We could have accomplished so much. So much. Together.” Another droplet slipped from the corner of his eye.

Hawke thought he could spurn the affections of his own to pant after a Magister’s leftovers?

He thought he was better, did he?

That he was above the Circle’s oppression? That he could find allies among princes and clerics and templars, while the rest of his kind rotted away in Darkt—in _the_ _Gallows?_

Anders rose from the chair and headed for the pantry. He opened the door and let it drift closed behind him with nary a sound. He summoned fire to light the way and retraced the path to his clinic.

The stew helped, his weakness had receded.

He’d come to Hawke to escape the bonds of duty, to rest from his work. Instead, he’d been reminded of the urgency.

A plan, half-formed in the throes of spirit-fuelled delirium, took shape in his mind. He’d happened upon the formula by the Maker’s providence. Years ago, in the slaver caves. When Hawke had sent them all traipsing after Fenris to appease the elf’s murderous whim.

There was much work left to do. Calculations to perfect, runes to practice and spells to master. But once Anders was ready…

He would have to tread carefully, of course. Hawke _would_ have questions. The man suffered from a chronic case of suspicion and the hereditary stubbornness of his Wilder blood, but it was Anders who’d saved his brother from the choice between a slow, tainted death or a quick one that would’ve left Hawke’s hands forever stained.

Hawke owed him.

When the time was right, Anders would call in that debt.

And when it was paid, when the deed was done, no wealth, no title, and no patron would shield Hawke from what it meant to be a mage under the Divine. Hawke’s eyes would be opened. He would know, once and for all, who his brothers were and to whom he owed his allegiance.

Oh, Anders knew Hawke would not thank him.

None of them would, but this was not about their gratitude. This was about—

“ _I am Justice! I am Vengeance!_ ”

For once, the spirit’s thunder did not jar him.

Hawke’s mantra was the nonsense his vaunted sire had drilled into his head: “ _Let magic serve that which is best in us, not what is most base_.”

That was not a choice his own father had believed in, nor the templars of Kirkwall, and neither did Anders himself.

Not anymore.

Hawke’s choices _,_ his father’s, Irving and Orsino’s – they would all cease to matter. It would be Anders who chose. Just this once _,_ it would be Anders who got to decide. How much had he suffered at the whims of others, mage and mundane alike?

No more. Never again.

When his plans came to fruition, Hawke’s self-centred pandering and Orsino’s nervous tantrums would be forgotten. Anders would have shown his fellow mages what magic is capable of. They would all rise up and claim their birthright, or—

 _“…they will perish like the sycophantic pawns they are!_ ”

The thought came from his own mind, spoken in the same voice of selfhood that had always lived inside him. The sentiment was not foreign, either. The burning, roiling desire to see it to fruition _was_ , and part of him yet recoiled at the vehemence of it.

That part was growing smaller.

It was futile to resist.

Instead, Anders offered his agreement and with consensus, came the solace of certitude.

**Author's Note:**

> So, on the subject of elven dicks. There's [this bit of banter](https://twitter.com/neBulaMor/status/1355547466658144260) between Zevran and Leliana that informs my canon on the subject:
> 
>  **Zevran:** I must say, dear woman, I rather like this change in you.  
>  **Leliana:** That's nice, but I'm not sleeping with you.  
>  **Zevran:** Oh, I can think of many other things we can do other than sleep.  
>  **Leliana:** Oh? Then let's see what's in those trousers. I like to make informed decisions, after all.  
>  **Zevran:** That's rather saucy of you, isn't it? You really have changed!  
>  **Leliana:** Yes, yes. I don't see those trousers coming down, however, do I?  
>  **Zevran:** Err...you just want me to show you? Right here?  
>  **Leliana:** Why not? Aren't you the shameless lothario you claim to be? There are rumours about you elves and I intend to see them proved untrue before I even consider a tumble.  
>  **Zevran:** On second thought, perhaps you've travelled to an awkward place where I dare not follow...  
>  **Leliana:** I thought as much.
> 
> All dicks are great, folks. We can write about small ones too. They're sexy af <3


End file.
